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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23110141">Watering Can</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BouquetOfScoroses/pseuds/BouquetOfScoroses'>BouquetOfScoroses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Backstory, Depression, Idk Dominique is just a sad girl, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Introspection, Next Gen, Numbness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:27:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,829</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23110141</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BouquetOfScoroses/pseuds/BouquetOfScoroses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I still remember you as a little girl who overwaters plants because she doesn't know when to stop giving." - Trista Mateer<br/>--<br/>Dominique gives and gives and gives, but all they do is take and take and take.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Watering Can</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“I still remember you as a little girl who overwaters plants because she doesn’t know when to stop giving.” </em>
</p><p>I. She is six years old, and she loves the flowers in her mother’s garden more than anything else in the world.</p><p>It is a small garden, full of wildflowers and few weeds because her mother is many things and there isn’t enough room left for “good gardener” to be one of them.</p><p>But she believes that she herself is a good gardener. Every day, she lugs out the watering can, her father following closely to make sure she doesn’t drop it on her tiny six-year-old feet.</p><p>She waters each flower, giving it its own special attention. She wants to keep them healthy, and water makes flowers healthy. So more water should just make them healthier, right?</p><p>She asks her father this, and he laughs and nods. She has drowned the flowers already, he thinks. A little more won’t hurt them.</p><p>She waters them until her watering can is empty.</p><p>Then, she goes back again for more.</p><hr/><p>II. She is twelve years old when she meets the first boy who can’t get enough.</p><p>He is fourteen, two years ahead of her in school. He is in a different house, and she doesn’t know how he notices her. She is growing quickly into a body she’s not completely sure how to be comfortable in, but there are many eyes that are all too comfortable with it.</p><p>This boy, though, is different. He doesn’t stare at her chest or her butt as the others do. He teases her, making fun of the way her face is covered in small freckles or the way her stomach maybe puffs out a little in her school skirt. Sometimes he pulls her hair when he passes in the hallway, and sometimes it hurts. He and his friends laugh, and she feels like crying and laughing at the same time.</p><p>Victoire hears about it from another student, and demands to know who it is. She refuses to tell her, because part of her doesn’t want it to stop. It is attention, the kind she does not always get in her large family.</p><p>His teasing escalates, and one day he flips her skirt up in the hallway. She turns tomato red, and pushes her skirt back down as quickly as she can. But she still doesn’t say anything.</p><p>It’s right before Christmas when he kisses her. He grabs her on her way to dinner, and pulls her into an abandoned classroom. His lips are on hers before she can shout, scream, yell, anything. She isn’t sure she would have, anyway.</p><p>He pushes against her, his hands everywhere on her body. Part of her hates it, hates him, but part of her wants it. She wants this boy to want her, to take back all of the things he’s said about her and about her body.</p><p>It is her first kiss, and it is over far too quickly, and not quickly enough.</p><p>He pushes away from her, breathing heavily. She’s breathing heavily, and her knees are shaking.</p><p>He tells her not to say anything to anyone. He tells her it meant nothing, he just needed to release some stress. He tells her that it was just because she was there, that no one in his right mind would choose her if they could have had someone else.</p><p>He tells her to come back to the same room, same time the day after they return from break.</p><p>She doesn’t want to. She thinks about it all during Christmas holidays. She doesn’t want to go back, she doesn’t want him. She doesn’t want something like that.</p><p>But a small part of her whispers that she does. A part of her whispers that maybe he’s right, maybe no one would choose her, so why would she not go back to the one who did?</p><p>She goes back.</p><p>And she goes back the next night.</p><p>And the next.</p><p>And the next.</p><p>Every night is the same. He kisses her, always in charge, always demanding as much as she will give. He sends her away, telling her that it means nothing. He insults her, saying no one would choose her. He tells her to come back the next night.</p><p>And she always does.</p><p>She waters him until her watering can is empty.</p><p>Then, she goes back again for more.</p><hr/><p>III. She is sixteen when boys realize what they can get from her. What she is willing to give.</p><p>She looks in the mirror and knows what they see. They see nothing but a body that they can use for their own pleasure. And she doesn’t discourage them. She dresses to show herself off. She pulls her school skirts up until they barely cover her butt, and she unbuttons her school shirts until her cleavage and her lace-trimmed bras can be seen. But she sees nothing when she looks in the mirror. Her body is not hers, but she hates it all the same.</p><p>She smiles at boys as they walk down the hall, and laughs (even as her eyes prick with tears) when one or three of them walk by and grab her butt as she walks. She winks at them, and she passes them flirtatious notes.</p><p>None of them are her boyfriend. They aren’t interested in her like that.</p><p>They have other girls for that. Other girls who don’t show themselves off, don’t give up everything to any boy who asks.</p><p>No one has ever been interested in her like that.</p><p>They come to her, and they only ever ask for one thing. She finds the place, she chooses the time, but she never chooses to say no. She wants this almost as much as they do. She wants the oblivion, the escape.</p><p>She never likes them. She never feels more than casual indifference for them. Sometimes she doesn’t even know their names.</p><p>She feels sorry for some. The ones who are virgins, who come to her because they feel embarrassed and their friends are making fun of them.</p><p>Sometimes she hates them. The ones that come to her because of a fight with their girlfriends, the ones who have girlfriends that plan on marriage, who claim they love their girlfriends more than anything, but they just need something new.</p><p>But she doesn’t stop.</p><p>She never tells anyone what she does. If her male cousins hear about her in the dormitory (and she’s sure they do), they never say anything. Maybe they’re embarrassed for her. Maybe they’re embarrassed <em>of</em> her.</p><p>Sometimes it’s harder to hide. She invites all boys into her bed, and there are some who are worse than others. Some boys get aggressive, or they get angry. They lash out, sometimes hitting the wall, or the bed frame. Sometimes hitting her. The bruises are difficult to hide.</p><p>But she doesn’t stop.</p><p>She waters them until her watering can is empty.</p><p>Then, she goes back again for more.</p><hr/><p>IV. She is eighteen when she is taken advantage of for the last time.</p><p>She is fresh out of Hogwarts, and she feels almost happy for the first time since she was twelve.</p><p>No longer empty, but not quite full.</p><p>Her parents ask her what she wants to do, but she tells them nothing. She hasn’t ever thought about her future. Half of her never believed she would truly ever have one.</p><p>She takes a job as a secretary for the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. It’s a tedious job, and unimportant. The Head believes that it is, though. He believes that he is as important as the Minister of Magic.</p><p>He quickly takes a liking to her. He spends more time than necessary talking to her. He touches her hand when he hands her files and papers. He asks her why she never has a boyfriend that comes and visits her.</p><p>She feels drawn to him, for some reason. While she wanted to move on from her Hogwarts years, forget the person that she was, she felt herself slipping back into those habits. She wore shorter skirts. She wore low-cut shirts, or shirts unbuttoned to show a glimpse of lace.</p><p>He was more than twice her age. She knew that. He had a wife. She knew that too, saw the ring every day when he came in. But she never saw it when he spoke to her. Never felt it when he touched her hand.</p><p>It began similarly to her trysts at Hogwarts. He sought her out, called her into his office, kissed her, and laid her on the desk.</p><p>She didn’t hate him though. She would tell people later that she hated him, hated every minute of it. But she didn’t, not then. She couldn’t.</p><p>He called her beautiful. He said she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, the best he had ever had. He told her he would leave his wife for her.</p><p>She believed him.</p><p>She believed in him as she felt the first pangs of sickness.</p><p>She believed in him as she took the test, confirming her worst fears.</p><p>She believed in him as she told him she was pregnant and that it was his.</p><p>She believed in him until he fired her.</p><p>He called her a liar. He called her a whore. He called her every name she had ever been called before, and then some. He sent her away, and warned her to never come near him ever again.</p><p>She watered him until her watering can was empty.</p><p>Then, she let herself cry.</p><p>V. She is nineteen when she learns what love really means.</p><p>Love came in the form of two twin boys with brown hair and blue eyes. They looked up at her like she was the most important person in the world, the person that mattered most to them.</p><p>She loved them.</p><p>She had never loved anyone like this before. She was a giver, that much she knew. She wanted to give all of herself to somebody, and she had. She had gave and gave and gave. But she had never received anything in return. No one ever bothered to fill her back up.</p><p>She felt it now with her sons. She gave them everything. Her time, her money, her tears, her smiles, her laughs. They got everything.</p><p>But she got everything back in return.</p><p>For all of the time that she gave, she got time with her sons in return. For all of the money spent, she got to see a smile when her boys played. For all of her tears, they gave her smiles. For all of her smiles and laughs, they smiled and laughed back.</p><p>She had been a watering can all her life. But now she had the tap that would fill her back up.</p><p>She watered them, and watered them, and watered them.</p><p>Then, they laughed, and she was full to the brim again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dominique Weasley has always been such a fascinating character to me. I've dreamt up endless headcanons for her, but I never wrote any of them into existence. This one came after I saw a pin on Pinterest with the quote that's in the summary, and I wrote it in about an hour after being inspired by that pin. It may not be the best I've ever written, but I think I did her story justice. Who knows, maybe inspiration for Dominique will one day strike again...</p></blockquote></div></div>
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